For the Greater Good
by dandaman12
Summary: Gellert Grindlewald is escaping from Nurmenguard... and he has big plans.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the beginning of a story I started writing a while ago. I haven't added to it in a while, but if you all like it, then I'll try to add more. Please comment, I want to know your thoughts...**

**ENJOY!**

1

His black eyes had a manic glint that always meant danger as he stared out the window. Normally, his eyes were so lifeless and dark that they seemed to repel sunlight, for they never seemed to reflect it. But now they were different. A certain light seemed to have entered them, and was dancing like fire within them.

The object of Gellert Grindlewald's scrutinizing was a tall, gaunt man. His figure was silhouetted against the low sun.

"_Crackpot._" He thought to himself. He kept on watching as the man stopped, turned, and vanished instantly. The sun was setting, and the brilliant pink clouds were stretched across the sky contrasting nicely with the green, tree-speckled horizon. Gellert turned away from the window and stared without seeing at the large and extremely dusty padlock on the outside of his cell. He hated everything about that man. Everything from his stupid grey beard to his stupid boots made him, Grindlewald, angry beyond even his own belief.

_What is the point of locking me in prison anyways? _He thought to himself. He reveled in the thought that it was out of fear, although another possibility, and also the most likely one, was that Albus Dumbledore was angry. What did Dumbledore care if Gellert was causing a bit of trouble? He had to admit that he hadn't expected Albus to fight him, given their past friendship.

He pressed his thumb to his tongue, and in turn pressed it to the end of his left robe sleeve, which was smoking slightly from the duel he had just lost. It stopped smoking. How had Dumbledore managed to defeat him, the master of the deathstick?

At this thought, he started a little and put a dirty hand into his pocket. He was devastated, but not at all surprised to find it devoid of a wand.

Suddenly, the lock he was looking at came into focus and he really saw it for the first time. That lock was the least of his problems. After all, he himself had made it, and knew perfectly well how to escape. The real problem was not calling attention to himself when he did.

He got up and began to pace around the room, occasionally pulling apart a cobweb with his fingers. The answer seemed close. Just beyond his reach, under his hammock, or concealed behind the dust on the walls. And to find the answer was as simple as to brush the dust away.

Even though he could easily escape the confines of his cell at any time, there was still the problem of inconspicuously leaving Nurmenguard itself, and that, unfortunately, required a wand.

He stopped pacing abruptly and stared dumbstruck at the wall opposite him. He was stupid not to think of it immediately. He had created himself a secret way to escape that only he knew how to work. And once he had gotten out, he would go to the small room of wands confiscated from prisoners, and take one, just like that.

Of course there was still the gaping hole in his plan of what he would do once he had a wand, but that was to contemplate tomorrow.

He crossed the room and hoisted himself into a large hammock woven roughly from thick itchy ropes. He lay down and twiddled his thumbs. He thought that maybe if he pretended not to care about his situation, he really would not.

For what seemed like hours (although it may have only been minutes), he lay staring at the ceiling, until he turned over to avoid swallowing a large spider dangling over his mouth.

He was nine years old, sitting on a flowery blue sofa and staring avidly at a brick fireplace across from him. As he watched, the fire suddenly leapt high into the air, and went out. Only a few seconds later however, there was again a large fire in the grate, belching sparks over the carpet.

He showed no interest at all in the bizarre behavior of the fire, but merely stared at it. He was used to strange things happening where he was. He had been told long ago that this was bound to happen, that in two years he would be on his way to Durmstrang, a mysterious wizarding school. A gust of wind blew in through an open window. Then, as though it was blowing through time itself, everything sped up. His surroundings were a blur of color and light, and he seemed to be growing larger and older! Then, it stopped.

He was two feet taller than he had been, crouching on a window sill, twiddling a wand between long fingers. A man walked into the room and saw him. However, the man only had time to stare, horror struck at him before Gellert jumped off the window sill.

He was younger, but not by much. He was laughing at a joke, arm in arm with Albus Dumbledore, while a man snapped a picture.

He was reading a letter by wandlight in the dead of night, smiling at what it said.

He was outside, seething with anger, whipping his wand around while multicolored lights streamed from its tip. Two other boys his age were doing the same. Deadly green beams of light were missing him by inches, and Sparks were flying like fireworks where spells clashed. A young girl stood cowering in the middle, crying and screaming for them to stop, but they did not. Lights were flying more furiously than ever, then, it all stopped. He looked down to see the girl sprawled motionless on the ground. Then without thinking twice, he ran.

Hands gripping the hammock as if to save his life, he woke up. He was momentarily surprised that he could not see anything, until he realized that his face was pressed against the pillow, which was wet with drool in places. He shifted into the closest thing he could manage to a sitting position in the hammock. His hair was stuck to his forehead with cold sweat.

It was still dark outside and could not be much later than dawn. His hand, which was just as wet as his head, was trembling as it reached into the inner pocket of his robes. It withdrew a small leather package, kept closed with a small brass button. He opened it slowly. It was filled with no less than ten papers, all folded, and with the appearance of having been unfolded, read, and re- folded many times.

He ran through the old letters with his fingers, pulled out a relatively old one, and read it.

_Gellert-_

_Your point about wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES' OWN GOOD—this, I think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that power gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point; it will be the foundation upon which we built. Where we are opposed, as we will surely be, this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD._

He stopped reading and simply stared at the last four words. They had become the pedestal on which his plans stood, the cornerstone of his life.

And yet there they were, on an old letter signed- Albus.

He had left a copy of this letter back in Godric's hallow, and kept the real one. He had hoped that, If Dumbledore found the copy, those words might move Dumbledore farther along the path to wizard domination.

Somehow he had been stupid enough to take the stack of useless letters now stored in a leather package with him ever since. Why he had not left without them, he did not know, and why he still kept them confused him even more.

He folded the letter with unnecessary care and replaced it in the leather pouch. Replacing the package in his robes, he got up and looked blearily at his watch. It was five thirty. He did not want to sleep anymore. He walked to the steel bars that closed him into the cell and pressed his thumb to the rusty padlock outside of the bars.

Immediately, it glowed electric blue and grew warm. He leaned close to it and muttered "_Hallows."_

The word did the trick. The padlock disappeared with a pop and the bars melted away. He walked through the jail, passing cell after cell of his own creation. He laughed at the prisoners who were close to death, and ignored their pleas for freedom. After a minute, he came to a small window. There was no lock on this one, and he easily climbed through it and jumped out. Once he had fallen about ten feet, he twisted in the air.

The air around him closed in like a solid thing, and he was squeezing through a rubber chute with no air to be inhaled.

Then, he was again on solid ground. He opened his eyes immediately. The grass under his shoes was wet with morning dew, and the trees were rustling slightly in a warm breeze.

Without hesitation, he began to stride across his property, still filling his lungs with morning air and the scent of grass. He had disapparated to just outside the gates of Nurmenguard. He walked for another short space of time, and turned right. There were the walls of Nurmenguard, made of crumbling cement, wrapping around the building fifty feet away in every direction enclosing the tall structure in the middle. The iron gates arched a little way above the rest of the wall so that the cement had to curve up and over it to enclose the iron on the top. On the cement arch was written:

For the greater good

He stared up, half disgusted, half awed at the words etched in the wall.

He was brought to earth by a gust of wind in his face, and stepped forward to be close enough to touch the gates.

He wrapped three times on the old rusty bars, and immediately they caught fire. Only it was not normal fire. It was constantly changing color, from green, to red, to blue, to black, to white. The clean morning air was filled with smoke. He again muttered, "Hallows." The flames subsided.

A golden ball of light appeared above the gate, casting its light around the surrounding area. This was used to detect magical concealment. As there was none, it disappeared and the gates creaked open.

He was particularly proud of his detecting light, because he knew that no other prisons had it- it was his own creation.

He kept walking, strutting shamelessly across the damp grass. It was lighter out now, and the cement building was thrown into greater detail.

There was no door, and he simply walked through the wall, into a dimly lit room. There were chains hanging on every foot of the wall. On his right, there were rusty handcuffs, chains on them leading to ankle shackles. Here were torture helmets on his left, glowing red hot, to be placed on the heads of those who were… naughty.

He crossed the room, feeling immensely superior to the prisoners because he had to wear none of those things. On the right, where the large chains were hanging, he pulled aside the chains like a curtain, where there was an archway leading to a small room with stone walls lined with wooden cubbyholes.

As he stepped in, the chains he had pulled aside fell back in front of the arch with loud clinks and rattles. On one side, the cubbyholes were all labeled: "elder." On the other, they were labeled: "Other."

He trotted to the side were the elder wands were, and peered into the cubbyholes. They were empty. The other side, he found were nearly so, except for four or five wands of different colors and lengths.

He tested them all, producing flowers, then shooting flames from the tip of the wand and watching them curl and turn black, crumbling to the ground. They all worked the same, so the choice was down to how comfortable they felt in his hand. He ended up with a short wand made of cherry, with a crab apple carved at the end of the handle as some sort of pommel.

He did not particularly like having fruit at the end of his wand, but the others felt odd in his hand, and he only liked this one. He tucked it away inside his robes, and stepped through the chains, for some reason forgetting to push them out of his way, and receiving sharp pains in his forehead where they hit.

After he had stood blinking in confusion at his stupidity for a few seconds, he walked across the room and to the stairs leading to the cramped solitude of his cell.

In a few minutes, he was slumped in the left corner of a large overstuffed armchair he had conjured, his right leg hanging luxuriously over the other arm. From the silk bathrobe he was now wearing, he drew a cigar, which he lit with his wand and put in his mouth.

Now he needed to think. He knew that if he simply left, just like that, someone in the prison would notice he was gone. Therefore he could not leave an empty cell behind. Something, or someone would have to take his place.

The cigar fell out of his mouth as his jaw dropped. That was it! Someone would take his place!

He waved his wand and the bars on the windows melted away. Running to the window, he yelled, "Acio broom!"

In a moment, a confiscated broom from the first floor of Nurmenguard came flying up to him. He jumped on it and flew on it, high above the prison to get a better look at it. He hoped against hope that this look was one of his last.

7


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi, Everybody! Sorry I took so long, I've been having a hard time getting around to writing it… Anyways, I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for (hopefully) not giving up on me! _

_ Happy Reading! -DANDAMAN_

2

Grindlewald paced the cell, bony hands clasped behind his back. _I am ready… I am ready… _ He thought to himself. But was he? Was he prepared to live the rest of his life out in the world, presumed to be imprisoned? Yes. Of course he was. He had been waiting his whole life for this, anyways. The real question, he supposed, was if he was ready to do it _alone. _His entire life, he had done everything with Albus Dumbledore, and now he was on his own. He hadn't a friend or ally in the world except himself.

He shook the thoughts from his head. Now was not the time for doubts. Now was the time for confidence, for action. He was about to begin the biggest undertaking of his life, and if he began it with doubts, it would surely end in failure.

He cracked his knuckles, and drew his wand from his robe pocket. With a deep breath, he pointed it at his own chest.

He took a deep breath. "Geminio," he said.

It happened very quickly. No sooner had he spoken the word, than he felt as though a strong gust of wind was ripping the skin off of his face! He tried to stay still, but it was too painful. He collapsed onto his knees and breathed heavily. Suddenly, _he_ fell face first onto the stone floor… yet he was still on his knees. He opened his eyes to see a man lying face down on the ground. He smiled and stood up.

Not far from where he had been kneeling, a surprisingly thin man lay motionless on the stone floor.

Grindlewald grinned and pushed the figure onto its back with his foot.

The man at his feet was dirty, gaunt, and skeletal. His ribs could be counted through the filthy grey robe he wore. His beard, and hair although relatively short, was twisted, knotted and streaked with grey. But the worst were the eyes. They were sad, mourning, even, and darker than the night sky.

Grindlewald wrinkled his nose in disgust and something close to embarrassment. Kneeling, he heaved the body onto his shoulder and sat it down in his chair. Now for the hard part.

He took out his wand, and pointed it at his head. He closed his eyes and drew the tip slowly away from himself. Attached to the tip was a silver thread. It was much longer than most memory threads though. Even after he had completely extended his arm, it hadn't ended. Eventually, after he had wound it around his wand six times, it broke. He took a deep breath to compose himself. He wasn't even sure if this part would work. He had never heard of anybody who had done it, but he hoped it could be done.

He lowered the wand and touched it to his clone's head. The silver thread sank in. He put down his wand and waited for something that might not even happen. Thankfully, it did.

His clone sprang up, grabbing Grindlewald's wand. "Hey!" said Grindlewald, standing. "That's mine, you idiot."

His clone pointed the wand at his other self. "Stupefy!"

Grindlewald ducked, as a hole was blasted in the wall where he had been standing. He somersaulted toward his other self and grabbed the wand.

He pointed it at his clone and yelled "STUPEFY!" the clone flew backwards and slammed against the cell wall. It crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Immediately, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Apparently, if his clone felt too much pain, so would he. He suddenly wondered what would happen if the clone died.

Grindlewald brushed himself off, quite pointlessly, and approached the body cautiously. He shook his head. He hadn't anticipated it being so easy…

He pointed his wand at the figure and concentrated on the last few moments. "Obliviate." A blue light emanated from his wand and targeted his clone's head. When it woke up, it would remember nothing of the past minute. It- he- would simply be Gellert Grindlewald, he would know and remember everything that his other self did, except, (thanks to the real Grindlewald) how to escape Nurmengard.

Grindlewald made all his luxury items disappear and conjured himself some new robes. After dressing, he left his cell. There was one more thing he needed to do.

Back in the wands room, he looked through the cubbies. After some time he selected one. It was blackthorn, 13 inches. A bit longer than he was used to, but he would only use it in the case of an emergency. He stowed it in his pocket and strolled out the gates of Nurmengard. He was free.

He looked around triumphantly. He suddenly wished he had chosen a less inviting looking island on which to build a prison. _Never mind that,_ he thought. He waved his wand, and said again, "Accio broom." A broom flew toward him from the prison. He jumped at the last moment and it swooped underneath him. He landed perfectly on the broom and pulled the end upward. The broom tilted suddenly, and he was almost thrown off, but he held on as he soared into the sky a mile a minute. He straightened only a few miles before the clouds. The view was spectacular. It was high noon, and the sun was right overhead, beating down directly onto his back. He was only about a mile from the ocean, and the white sand beach leading to it.

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He had been smiling so much over the past day or two that his face was beginning to hurt. It briefly crossed his mind how extremely wrong that was, but then his mind switched back to more important matters: what to do next.

He landed where the grass begins to give way to white sand and dismounted the broom.

He needed time to think. He sat cross-legged on the grass, and examined his second wand.

The spell he was hoping to accomplish was extremely complicated. That was not the hard part, though. The aspect of the spell that made especially difficult was that it technically didn't exist.

He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles and whipped out his first wand. Pointing it at the blackthorn wand, he began to chant.

Grindlewald lay on his back at the beach several hours later. he was exhausted from such prolonged concentration, but he had done it.

The second wand now floated six inches above his head, completely invisible. Now, if he was ever captured and his first wand taken, he would always have the back up. His face, as well, was nearly unrecognizable, due to a second spell. He had made his eyes closer together, added more wrinkles under his eyes, and lengthened his nose. He conjured a mirror. He had done a pretty good job. He didn't think anybody would recognize him. He did look a little bit familiar, but it was probably because he knew his face too well to be totally fooled.

He stood, stretched and brushed sand off his robes. Enough relaxing. It was time leave the island.

He once again mounted his broom and soared out into the open ocean. Hours went by. Every bone in his body began to ache from keeping the position for so long, and his fingers were numb from gripping the broom. Finally, after en endless amount of time, he glimpsed land. He recognized the coastline of Scotland. When he was within a few feet of the shore, he tumbled off of his broom into the ocean and splashed into the cool water. He crawled onto the sand and flopped, dripping, onto his back next to his fallen broom. He laughed and closed his eyes contentedly. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

He woke to a wand pointed at his chest. The wielder of the wand was a rather squat man in a brand new black robe. His hair was slicked back over his forehead.  
>"Who the heck are you?" grumbled Grindlewald, eyes crossing as he stared at the wand.<p>

"I am Edgar Cartella. And I need not ask who you are."

Grindlewald tried to look at his own face for a moment to see if it had changed back, but stopped after a moment after realizing how ridiculous that was. He sat up and said, as confidently as he could, "Oh, yes? And who exactly do you think I am?"

Cartella chuckled in an extremely Irritating way. "Why, you're George Hilting, known follower of Gellert Grindlewald."

Grindlewald cursed. No wonder he had seemed familiar! He must have designed his face from someone in his own memory without realizing it. How could he have been so stupid?

He began to reach for his wand, but before he could retrieve it, Cartella shrieked "STUPEFY!"

Grindlewald was thrown backward and he tumbled into the ocean in a reverse summersault.

The last thing he thought as he lost consciousness was, _that went well…_

His head flopped backward into the water.

He awoke in a dirty concrete cell. It was colder than death, and his mind seemed clouded. He blinked and looked around. Floating everywhere, in the halls, and outside the building, were black cloaked figures emanating pure evil and despair. Their cloaks swirled in a nonexistent breeze, and from the folds of the robes hung grey rotted hands, constantly clenching and unclenching, as if grasping at the happiness in the air.

Grindlewald groaned. This was Azkaban. He knew instinctively that it would be nearly impossible to escape. And he wouldn't for over sixty years.


End file.
